Email comes with a big surprise

Thursday

Sep 5, 2013 at 4:18 PM

Next June, my brother, sister and I are following our father's World War II map through France, the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. Since I first wrote about our plans in a column last spring, we've had our first family meeting, divided our tasks and begun our search for people willing to meet us along the way. Our research has plodded along in fits and starts all summer, with small victories and just that many roadblocks. But nothing has excited me as much as the email two weeks ago.

Barbara Presnell

Next June, my brother, sister and I are following our father's World War II map through France, the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany. Since I first wrote about our plans in a column last spring, we've had our first family meeting, divided our tasks and begun our search for people willing to meet us along the way. Our research has plodded along in fits and starts all summer, with small victories and just that many roadblocks. But nothing has excited me as much as the email two weeks ago. It was a Monday night. My husband and I had finished dinner and were headed out on a dog walk when I checked my email one last time. There was a message from Frank Towers, a World War II veteran I'd been communicating with for a few days. "Come here, quick. You are not going to believe this," I said to my husband. Even still, as I write this, my smile stretches across the living room and a chill runs through me. Our father — did he know he wouldn't be around to tell the story himself? — left us a journal of his company's movements that includes such tidbits as this on Dec. 26, 1944: "All men gave their Christmas stockings to the children of Malmedy who lost families in the fighting." He left maps of the countries with routes marked in red, a roster of his company, including KIAs, MIAs and other dispositions. He was a first sergeant in HQ company, of the 120th division, 3rd battalion of Old Hickory, the 30th Infantry Division. He took over 3,000 photos and collected them in an album whose string binding has years ago come undone. The photos, which we've oddly never cared much for until now, tell a story of the day-to-day life of the men. There are soldiers — including our dad — with their arms around young women, or rolling cigarettes beside a bombed out building. There are sheep in fields, bridges, chow lines, individuals and groups in various configurations — the wire section, intelligence, the radio division and more. Father Sullivan appears more than once, and there's an amusing collection of the backsides of soldiers standing in front of latrines, peering over their shoulders into the camera. We located the abbey in Kerkrade, the Netherlands, where the company headquartered for several months, made contact with the staff of the now convention hotel, who told us, yes, we could stay there, and he'll arrange for us to meet with a docent who can tell us all about it. He recommended a local historian and owner of a World War II museum, with whom we've had several email conversations. Then a response to our inquiry came from the secretary of the mayor of Mortain, France. "We want to hold a reception for you," she wrote, "and the man who owns the land where the battle took place was a boy in 1944, and he'd like to meet you." Our trip was beginning to feel like reality. One name kept showing up on every online site about the 30th infantry division: Frank Towers. He had an entire site dedicated to the division in World War II. Some of it coincided with my father's experience, but a lot of it did not. I can't explain why I hesitated so long to contact him — maybe because I didn't think he could help us, his experience being so different. Maybe I feared he was just too old — probably well into his 90s now — and he would simply confuse us, not help us. But after running into roadblocks in Belgium and Germany, I decided it'd be worth a try. I sent him an email. "Here's what we're doing," I wrote. "And we're having trouble making some contacts. Can you help?" My response came within 24 hours, a lengthy epistle that began, "I knew your father. He was in the 117th with me." The way he wrote it — without enthusiasm — convinced me he must say that to all the children of veterans. Anyway, he had the details wrong. "No," I wrote back. "He was in the 120th. You're thinking of someone else." It didn't matter if he knew him or not though, because his information was priceless. Over the course of several emails, he explained to me the organization of the 3rd battalion, how the three divisions — the 117th, the 119th and the 120th — were always within five miles of each other. He explained what happened after my father's journal entries ended. After crossing the Rhine River, they moved forward to Magdeburg, Germany, where they were when V-E Day was declared. They were on the Elbe River in Germany, he said, and met with the Russians in that historic union. "I think I have a picture of your father with some Russian soldiers," he wrote. Yeah, right, I thought. How could he possibly have such a picture, and how could he remember it after all these years anyway. Even that Monday night when the email arrived with the subject line, "Photo," I doubted. Especially after Mr. Towers wrote, "I didn't write down the name, but I think I remember this as Sgt. Presnell," I expected to see some other American soldier.But suddenly, there he was, my 29-year-old father, big as life, his arms around the shoulders of two Russian soldiers, grinning, his own camera, the one that snapped those 3,000 photos, hanging around his neck. To say that I felt chills is understatement. My father stood right there in my Lexington bedroom, looking straight at me. Something in his eyes said, "Here I am. Come and find me." We're coming, Daddy, I wanted to say. We're going to walk your walk, see what your eyes saw. We're going to find you. So our plans march forward, our mission and purpose gaining focus every day. Seventy years is a long time back, but 1945 is unfolding right before our eyes.Barbara Presnell is a poet and teacher of writing who lives in Lexington. Contact her at www.barbarapresnell.com.